


Just Nerves

by thisprettywren



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abduction, BAMF!John, Bad Decisions, M/M, PWP, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-15
Updated: 2011-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-19 10:48:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/200004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisprettywren/pseuds/thisprettywren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We can't grope each other, it's a crime scene." For a prompt over at sherlockbbc_fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Nerves

It had been three long days of boredom and annoyance and pain (in that order, mostly, and he supposed he could be grateful for that, though he would have thanked them for making things a little less _dull_ ) handcuffed and shut up in a shipping container inside a warehouse, but Sherlock had known someone would come for him if he just waited.

He'd expected it would be Mycroft, actually. It was the sort of thing his brother tended to do--show up at the worst possible moment, the most _humiliating_ moment, when Sherlock was in no position to turn him away. And, truth be told, after three days he would have been glad for even Mycroft's help.

But, no. What happened was much, much better, the sort of thing Sherlock only--

Well.

He hadn't expected it would be John to show up, not really; thought that would have been too neat, too convenient. When Sherlock heard the shouting outside the shipping container, heard (felt, too) the slamming of a body against the metal side, he felt a flutter of anticipation in his stomach that mixed with the expected relief and, yes, impatience. He hated this part--questions, hospital, and he'd been battered _just enough_ that he'd have to strip and allow someone to take photographs.

Hateful, the lot of it.

He'd been distracted, then, when the door on the container had swung open and John had stuck his head in, John with bruised knuckles and a spray of blood (a rush of anxiety, but-- no, not his own, one of the kidnappers'; Sherlock was absolutely dizzy with relief, though it might have been the dehydration) across the front of his jumper, slipping his service weapon neatly into the waistband of his trousers. John turned his head and shouted out that he'd found him (had he taken out the guards by himself, then? Bloody useful, this army doctor of his) and then hurried to Sherlock's side, his face a mix of affection and relief and concern as he knelt down to pry the gag from between his teeth.

His fingers moved over Sherlock's skin, checking for wounds, as Sherlock worked his jaw and tried to coax some saliva back into his dry mouth. Three days was a _lifetime_ , for some things.

"You're an idiot," John said, once he'd satisfied himself that none of Sherlock's injuries were serious enough to preclude joking, just bruises and a few burned patches from where the kidnappers had tried to relieve their frustration.

Finally John grabbed Sherlock's shoulder. His eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, narrowed in the echoes of a smile. _John._

Sherlock felt an answering smile stretching his own dry lips. "Good to see you too."

* * *

After that it was all a flurry of motion: photographs, fingerprinting the shipping container, Lestrade showing up with a key to undo the cuffs. Then Sherlock was giving his statement and being fussed over by the paramedics, who insisted on running an IV, bandaging the burns and abrasions on his wrists (dried blood there, he hadn't realised how hard he'd pulled), wrapping him in a stupid orange blanket. "It's not even cold," he'd protested, but they'd sat him down on the kerb to wait while they attended to the injured kidnappers (worse off than he was himself, Sherlock noted with satisfaction).

He watched John from across the parking lot, impatient, body thrumming with its delayed adrenaline response. John had given a statement, too (keeping his back turned away from Lestrade while they spoke; _very subtle, John_ ). As soon as he finished John turned, eyes scanning the scene, searching him out, an expression of relief settling over his features at finding him.

(Finding him, in fact, for the second time that night.)

John knelt before him so they were at the same level. His expression hadn't changed much, affection and concern shading the blue eyes.

"You're all right, then?" he asked Sherlock, his tone calm. He wasn't going to _fuss_ , then, and Sherlock could have kissed him for it.

"That was... good," he said, instead of answering. "What you did."

John shrugged with one shoulder, a familiar, self-effacing gesture, and Sherlock suddenly didn't want to wait anymore--had had altogether too much of waiting, in fact; he'd never been overly fond of it--just wanted to get out of there, back to the flat or _anywhere else_ , really.

He started to stand, using John's knee as leverage to push himself to his feet, and John caught his wrist in his hand.

"Don't--" he said. "What are you doing? Do you have any idea how pale you-- ? You need to sit down before you _fall_ down."

"Tired of sitting," Sherlock said. It was true enough, but he didn't even really hear himself speak the words; he was looking at John's hand where his fingers were wrapped around Sherlock's arm. He hadn't bandaged his knuckles and they were already beginning to show the darkening of bruises, a smear of dried blood on the back of his hand, and the thought of how that had happened--knowing John ( _his_ John) had come for him, that he'd actually fought, that he could have been hurt but he wasn't, that he'd--

"John," he said, surprised at how low his own voice sounded, and John's forehead wrinkled in concern. "I need you to--" and he reached up and pulled John's head forward, and then they were kissing, John's mouth warm and wet against his, and _fuck_ he tasted good. Like danger, like coming home. Sherlock wanted very badly, at that moment, to be at home.

(Not the worst thing about being locked in a shipping container for three days, true, but certainly not one of the benefits, either. He _had_ missed him.)

John pulled away, breaking the kiss. "Sherlock, what are you--" he began, startled. "We can't do that here." He turned his head, wary of onlookers among the officers milling around behind him.

"No one will see," Sherlock said, pulling him close again. "They'll just think you're examining me."

"But--" John began, but stopped when Sherlock reached out and put his hand on the front of his trousers.

"Come _here_ ," Sherlock said, more insistently, and was only mildly surprised when John actually did, shuffling his feet forward so he was just that little bit closer to where Sherlock was sitting on the kerb, the blanket around his shoulders just brushing the outer edges of his knees.

"We can't. Ah. You're not." Sherlock wasn't listening, trying to undo the zip on John's trousers one-handed so he wouldn't have to relinquish his hold on the back of John's neck. "You've been-- it's just nerves, Sherlock, you shouldn't be--"

"Perfectly normal adrenal response," Sherlock muttered, "and I can't think of any better way to work it off, can you?"

He finally managed to work the zip down and undid the button on John's trousers, yanked the flies open, didn't bother with the belt, pulled John's pants down just far enough to slip his hand inside. John was warm and began to stir immediately in his palm.

" _Fuck_ , Sherlock," John whispered, head tipping forward, eyes dark; just the slightest increase of pressure against Sherlock's palm where John was pressing himself up into it. "We can't do this here."

"You keep saying that, and yet it seems we are."

He squeezed and stroked and already John was hard in his hand. _An adrenal response of his own, then_ , Sherlock thought, and allowed himself a smile.

" _Christ_ ," John breathed, and his head fell forward onto Sherlock's shoulder, his hands coming down to grip Sherlock's thighs.

It wasn't artful, not in the slightest; in fact, it was one of the messiest sexual encounters Sherlock had ever had, but bloody hell if it wasn't satisfying to feel John tensing and quivering under his fingers.

It could only have been a few minutes later when John turned his head, breathing the words against the side of Sherlock's neck, "Oh, fuck, I'm going to--"

"Good," Sherlock heard himself growl. " _Now_ , John."

When it was over, John slumped forward against Sherlock's shoulder to recover, not quite resting his full weight on him, while Sherlock used the blanket to clean them up.

Then John was giggling against his shoulder. "They don't actually let you keep those, you know," he said finally, pushing himself upright.

Sherlock shrugged, feeling a grin stretch his mouth. "They might want to think about-- No no, we're fine," he called to Lestrade, who was beginning to walk toward them across the pavement. "Just a bit of nerves, you know." He released John's neck to wave airily.

Lestrade stopped walking and frowned at him briefly. "Just going to offer to give you a lift to A & E," he said, "but it looks like you might be... sorted." He turned away and John started to laugh in earnest, doing up his fly and pushing himself back up to standing.

"You're completely mad, you do know that," he said, smiling down at Sherlock, "and I think it's time I took you home."

**Author's Note:**

> Yep, looks like I still need some fluffy BAMFy fun for these guys. Thanks for bearing with me; the regularly scheduled angstfest will resume shortly.


End file.
